


Love in Fast Forward

by ionthesparrow



Series: Love in Fast Forward [1]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No, they don't get together in the end</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in Fast Forward

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written – and it’s really more of an extended sketch than a story, but I guess I needed to take a break from some other stuff I’m working on and go to my happy place. Welcome to my happy place.
> 
>  
> 
> * There are many Not True things in this fic - I am actively retsraining myself from telling you all the ways the hockey is less-than-real - but one thing perhaps worth mentioning, is that Columbus does actually, have a thriving and vibrant gay community. No disrespect towards C-bus intended :) 
> 
> ** Minor edits to correct my inability to write consistently in the past tense, and tendency to leave out words.

He found out in 2003, when they were both 18 and playing on the Canadian World Junior team. They were staying in a hotel in Yaroslavl, and Mike walked in on Carts – his teammate, his _best friend_ – making out with a dude. Mike froze in the doorway, two bags of chips still clutched in his teeth, hands juggling keycard and soda, bag and phone. 

The other kid bolted past him and out the door. 

“Hey, Carts,” he mumbled around the bag. 

Carts was a brilliant, fluorescent red. Even his _ears_ were red. He was staring at his hands, swallowing rapidly. 

Mike let the door fall shut. “Uh, so, you know. Whatever. It’s fine.” 

Carts glanced up at him, chest rising and falling like he just came off a two minute shift. 

Mike tossed a bag of chips at him. “Maybe we should work out, like, a system. Like a sock on the – ” 

“You want to watch TV?” Carts interrupted. 

Mike blinked. “Yeah. Sure.” He settled on the other bed. 

Carts flipped the TV on. After a second, he slowly reached out and snagged the chips. 

 

 

When they landed in Philly, and started with the Flyers, Mike’s life basically turned upside-down. Suddenly, he was playing _NHL_ hockey in an enormous city, where all the guys wanted to buy him a beer, and all the girls wanted to fuck him. 

After wins, anyway. 

And yeah, okay, maybe they drank too much. Maybe they hung out with one too many douches who were more interested in Mike’s paycheck, more interested in the fact that his face was on TV, than in, you know, _Mike_. But he was _20._ That was his excuse and he’s sticking to it. 

He watched out for Carts in the bars. Because every so often, when he got sloppy drunk, Carts would start _looking_ at dudes. And every so often, one of them would _look_ back. Example: they were in old town one Friday night, in one of the usual haunts, and Carts had been silently flirting with a guy across the bar for, like, an hour now. At least, when he wasn’t drunkenly falling off his barstool. Mike came back from taking a piss, and Random Guy had made his way around to this side of the bar, and he had his _hand_ on Carts’ _hip._ And Carts was leaning into him, smiling, loose and glassy-eyed. 

All Mike could think was that there were too many people around. Too many strangers. The articles in the tabloids about the drinking and the girls were bad enough; he wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t recognize that this would be _worse._ “Carts, come on,” he said, grabbing him by the arm. “It’s time to go home.” 

Carts blinked at him, slow, and unfocused. “I – ” He glanced back at his _friend._

“Come, on. We gotta go.” Mike raised his eyebrows at him. 

Carts had folded meekly. “Okay.” And followed him out. 

Later, only slightly more sober after the cab ride to their apartment, Mike deposited him on the couch and threw a bottle of water at him. It hit him in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t do that,” Mike said. 

Carts frowned at him darkly. Set his jaw. 

“Not drunk like that, not in Philly. You have to be careful.” And what was Carts looking so pissed for, anyway? Mike was just trying to look out for him. 

“Oh, and I suppose you were dead sober the first time you hooked up with a girl?” Carts glared at him mulishly. 

In fact, Mike was not. Grade 9, age 15. Amanda Laine. They were both drunk off their asses after breaking into her mom’s stash of Riesling. She had glorious, glorious breasts, Mike remembered. And he got to _touch_ them. He wondered, in hindsight, if they were really that amazing, or if it was more of a big-fish-small-pond thing. Maybe she was still in Kenora. Maybe he could find out. But, wait – “Wait, does that mean you’ve never hooked up with a guy before?” Mike frowned. “How do you even know you’re gay?” 

“Fuck you, Mike Richards.” Carts stalked off towards his room. The door slammed behind him. 

 

 

The next couple years were sort of a slow-motion train wreck, where Mike got to watch Carts fuck his way through Philly’s population of puck-sluts. Which, it’s not like Mike was being particularly discriminating, because _carpe fucking diem,_ right? But in Carts’ case it hardly made sense. Because, well, _gay._

Although, maybe it did – because it cemented his reputation as a ladies’ man. It also, however, cemented his reputation as irresponsible, immature, and kind of a dick. 

It all came to a head at the 2008 Christmas party, where Carts hit on Hartsy’s _wife._ An incident that ended with awkwardness, repeated, mumbled apologies, and piercing hangovers all around. After that, Carts toned it down. Spent more time on the computer, obsessively tracking his fantasy NASCAR league, or geeking out on the phone with his dad over car specs, which, when the Flyers’ weren’t playing well, was apparently all they had to talk about. 

But sometimes, Mike still caught him _looking._ There was a gay bar, the subtle kind – you wouldn’t have even noticed the rainbow flag unless you were looking for it – just down the block from the hotel they stayed in when they played the Rangers. And Mike had noticed that Carts _looked_ at it every time their bus went past. He looked at it in this sort of sad, like, almost _wistful_ way. When he glanced away from the bus window and noticed Mike watching him, he had looked down, fast. 

“You should go,” Mike said, as he was hanging up his suit in their hotel room. If his mom called him _one more time_ to bitch that he looked _rumpled_ on national TV, he was going to scream. 

“Go where?” Carts was already settled on the bed, laptop out. _Jeff Carter: Secret Nerd._

“To that bar.” Mike shrugged. “It’s _New York._ No one will even notice.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” Carts looked thoughtful. 

Mike didn’t bother looking for him that evening – he was totally willing to give Carts all the space he needed to, you know, _explore._ But he struck out early at the bars – _NYC girls, Jesus Christ_ – and when he headed back to the hotel room, Carts was already there, hunched over his laptop again. “You back already?” Mike asked. 

Carts glanced up. He looked vaguely guilty. “Uh. I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t – ” Mike paused, frowned. “Why not?” 

Carts shrugged, embarrassed. 

Mike was watching his face, and Carts had swallowed and looked down. And it seemed sort of impossible, that a guy whose job it was to run into other people, at thirty miles an hour, carrying a stick, would be afraid of a gay bar, but maybe that was it. Maybe he was. “I’ll go with you, next time. If you want.” 

Carts looked up at him sharply. “People will think you’re gay.” 

“So what? I don’t care.” 

Carts smiled at him, just a little. Just a hint of it around the edges of his mouth. 

 

 

The next time they were in New York, Mike said, “So come on, let’s go.” 

And Carts looked _surprised._ Like he thought Mike would’ve forgotten all about it or something. “You don’t have to,” he said, “we could just go out to a normal bar.” He sounded _nervous._

Which made Mike want to go all the more. “Come on, Carts – man up. We’ll go for one beer, and if it sucks, we’ll leave.” 

Carts looked more than nervous. He looked _terrified._ But, one of the fundamental reasons they got along, was that Mike was always going to _push_ Carts, and Carts was _never_ going to back down. “Okay.” He nodded slowly. “Let’s go.” 

And Mike, because he had half a heart, didn’t even chirp him about what he was wearing. 

 

 

It was basically a normal bar. The bartender was ridiculously, flamboyantly gay, in a hipster, Elvis Costello kind of way, but that was true of like half the bars in the city, those days. And the dude to chick ratio was, like, way skewed, but other than that. Other than that it was pretty normal. They sat at the bar, and Mike sipped his beer and waited for Carts to calm down enough to carry on a conversation. 

The Knicks were on. They were losing. 

Eventually, Carts managed to glance up from the wood grain surface of the bar, and looked around, and presumably noticed what Mike had already gathered: the world had not ended. The sun had not imploded, and they were surrounded by _totally normal dudes._ Guys in jeans. Guys in business suits. Guys watching the b-ball game. 

What Carts had not noticed, was that the guy at the end of the bar was totally checking him out. Mike decided he looked non-creepy. Maybe even reasonably attractive, if that was the kind of guy Carts was into. Although, really, Mike had no idea what kind of guy Carts was into. Maybe _Carts_ didn’t even know what kind of guy Carts was into. 

“Okay,” he said, standing up and slapping Carts’ on the shoulder. “I’m going to stop cockblocking you now.” 

Carts glanced over, confused, eyes going a little frantic. “What?” 

“Relax. Drink your beer. I’m going to go play pool.” He left Carts at the bar. 

There was a chick at the pool table, but she was just practicing shots, by herself. She wasn’t really the kind of girl Mike usually went for, but she had her tits pushed way up high and she was rocking some sweet cat-eye glasses. And Mike wasn’t about to be picky in a _gay bar._ “You want to play a round?” 

She looked up at him and smiled. “Sure. Want to make it interesting?” 

Half an hour and two hundred bucks later, Mike had resolved to never bet money against someone whose idea of a good time on a Friday night was practicing pool shots _by herself._ But it was worth it, because when he looked up, the guy at the end of the bar had moved in on Carts, and whatever he was saying, he was making Carts _smile._ Making him laugh. 

“Your friend?” Caroline asked. 

“Yeah. It’s, uh, it’s his first time out.” 

She smiled at him. “You’re sweet. You want a drink? I’ll buy.” 

“You better, I’m _broke._ ” 

They were two rounds in when Carts tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m ready to take off.” 

Mike glanced around, “With – ” 

“No.” Carts shook his head, blushed a little. “No, just back to the hotel.” 

“Okay, yeah – let me just kill this.” He polished off his drink, said goodnight to Caroline. 

“Come lose your money to me anytime,” she said. 

On the walk back to the hotel, Carts slowed down, dragging his feet for a moment. “Thanks, Richie.” He said. “Really. Thanks.” 

 

 

After that Mike knew Carts must have found some decent gay bars in Philly, because sometimes he came out with them, but sometimes he peeled off by himself, and Mike knew he wasn’t turning in early, because when Mike texted him pictures from the bar of one of the guys pulling some drunken, stupid stunt, Carts would hit him back right away. Sometimes he even texted Mike pictures back, including once notably, a photo of a shockingly neon pink shot that appeared to be topped with _whipped cream._

_Questioning whether this is all worth it,_ the caption had read. 

_YOLO,_ Mike sent back. And then upped the ante by sending, _143._

_Youre so fucking lame,_ Carts responded, _right back at you bro._

 

 

Somewhere in there they made a run at the Cup. Failed. Had a shitty season. And _got traded._

The first thing Mike said to Carts, on the phone from Kenora, where he was _supposed_ to be relaxing, but was now, instead, fighting off a panic attack, was, “Fuck.” Actually, _fuck_ was, like, the first _ten_ things he said to Carts. As in, “Fuck. What the fuck. How the fuck. _Fuck._ ” 

Arnold was staring at him, worried, so Mike shooed him outside. “Seriously, what the fuck?” 

Carts sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t even know.” In the background, Mike could hear him crack open a beer, which – _good idea._

But after that, after he’d run out of _fucks,_ but before he was drunk enough to bring up the _Blue Jackets,_ Mike asked, “Do they even have gay people in Columbus?” 

“Jesus, Richie – I don’t know. I’m not even thinking about that.” He sounded irritated that Mike would even bring it up. “Are you coming back to Philly?” He asked in a softer voice. 

“Yeah, apparently.” Because there were papers to sign. And suddenly, a whole apartment – a whole _life_ – to pack up. “Don’t worry, we’ll hang.” 

 

 

He and Carts texted obsessively through the end of summer, through training camp. It petered off when Mike’s season kicked off with the road trip from hell to the east coast and fucking _Europe._ Apparently the Kings were all used to long-ass plane hauls to games, but _Mike_ wasn’t. 

After the Kings fucking beat Philly, Carts texted him, _dear philly: fuck you very much, XOXO MR._ Followed by, _killer game. LA better be taking you out and getting you proper wasted now._

And Mike, because they _were,_ and he was already pretty drunk, sent back, _< 3 <3_

And Carts had just responded, _good._

Carts got busy with the Blue Jackets, too. Although the less said about _that,_ the better. But one night, he did get a pic from Carts – an incredibly gaudy version of the NHLPA logo, done up in rainbow colors and glitter paint. 

It was hanging on a wall somewhere with red brick and tap handles in the background, so Mike responded, _so they DO have gay bars in Columbus???_

_Shitty ones,_ Carts sent back, _i'm in chicago. columbus is too small._

 

 

In February, they brought Carts aboard. 

In June, they won their fucking Cup. “I fucking love you!” Mike said, when he handed it to Carts on the ice. And even though he was screaming at the top of his lungs, Staples was so loud that it was questionable whether even Carts could hear him. But, “I fucking love you, too, man!” Carts had answered. “Like, a lot!” And that was Carts for you, Mike thought, eloquent as all fuck. 

 

 

The problem with being a hockey player and dating, Mike had found, was that the kind of girl you got along with in the summer, when things were slow and lazy, was not necessarily the kind of girl you got along with during the season, when things were crazy hectic, and _no, I can’t go out,_ and no, _you can’t come over,_ and just, _no._ Which was a nice way of saying he got dumped two weeks after they go back to work. 

Carts took him out. 

“Fuck LA girls.” Mike was alternating between beer and water, because _fuck you, hockey_ and _fuck you, getting older._

Carts smirked at him. “Amen.” 

And, what did _Carts_ even know? Carts didn’t even date girls. Carts didn’t even _date._ There was a thought. “You know, you could totally date someone out here.” 

Carts rolled his eyes. “No, no.” He was shaking his head. “You’re not making this about me. This is about _you,_ and how you epically fail at making girls like you.” 

“Girls like me fine,” he grumbled. “At first, anyway.” 

“Aw, Mike.” Carts pushed his beer towards him. “Girls like you until you get _distracted_ and start ducking their calls.” 

“I get _busy._ ” 

Carts gave him a _look._ “You’re just pissed she dumped you before you got around to dumping her.” 

Mike glared at him. “I don’t see where you get off handing out relationship advice. You just hook up with guys you meet in bars.” Actually, that sounded refreshingly straightforward. 

Carts just shook his head at him, looking amused. 

“You totally could though,” Mike peeled the label off his beer bottle. Rolled it between his fingers. “I mean, if that’s something you wanted.” 

“You think?” Carts looked thoughtful, like he was actually considering it. 

“Yeah. This is _LA. Everyone_ is gay.” And when Carts frowned skeptically at that, Mike continued, “or at least no one cares.” 

“About hockey? Or about who’s gay?” 

“Both. Either.” 

 

 

That was where they left it. Somehow, Mike never expected Carts to follow through with it. At the time, Mike was dating a girl named Jessica. Jessica was a flight attendant. This was a genius arrangement – their schedules only aligned once in a blue moon, which was a virtual guarantee that this relationship was going to last at least into the months range. He had just finished explaining all this to Carts, but Carts wasn’t really paying attention. Carts was nervously jangling his keys. They were parked outside the practice rink, they just hadn’t gone in yet. 

Mike had his hand on the door, ready to go, but Carts wasn’t moving. He was making his anxious face. “What?” Mike asked. 

“Next time she’s in town, would you want to go out to dinner?” 

Mike frowned. “What? You, me, and Jessica?” 

Carts was studying his keys very carefully. “I’m seeing somebody. I thought we could all go.” 

_Oh._ “Oh.” Mike paused. “Yeah, Carts, definitely. We should do that.” 

Carts glanced over, smiled at him. “Cool.” 

 

 

It was a little weird. They went out to Sona, and the plates were square and the food all looked like modern art, and everything was _local_ and _farm-raised_ and harvested using fair-labor practices, because that was the big thing right then.

Carts was nervous. Carts was nervous for the amuse-bouche, all through the cocktails, and for the appetizers. He only really started to settle as the waitress was setting plates of artfully-reinterpreted salad in front of them. 

“I love this place,” Paul said. “I think Chef Myers shows real creative flair.” He held a bite of _something_ up on his fork, nodded thoughtfully. “And the food tastes good.” Paul was a _stock-money-financial-whatever_ guy. He played the guitar, and he had a vintage Lotus 18 he was restoring himself. He also had at least ten years on Carts. 

Privately, Mike though he was boring, but Paul and _Jessica_ got along _famously_. Apparently, Jessica was learning to play the guitar – which Mike hadn’t known, but let’s be honest: that wasn’t all that surprising. 

At one point, Mike noticed how close Carts and Paul were sitting, arms brushing in a sort of odd way, and then he realized that they were _holding hands._ They were holding hands under the table. And he – that – Mike shouldn’t have been so weirded out by that, but he _was._ Carts was _dating_ a _guy_. And now they were _out to dinner_ with Mike and Jessica and they were _holding hands._ Mike took a long sip of his wine. 

Carts’ eyes darted up to Mike’s face, his gaze a little questioning, a little worried. Normal, Mike thought, this was the new normal. He could get on board with this. He smiled at Carts. Carts smiled tentatively back. He didn’t let go of Paul’s hand. 

 

 

Paul lasted longer than Jessica, but not by much. 

“He dumped you on a game day?” Mike asked. “That’s cold.” 

Carts shrugged. “I’m not sure he even realized.” 

Drinking would have to wait, so Mike took Carts out for kale shakes. Because half the team had been fucking _raving_ about them. “This is disgusting,” Mike said. 

“It really is.” Carts took another sip. “When does the feeling of reinvigorated life force kick in?” He paused. “He was really nice about it, I guess.” 

Mike frowned. “What does that mean?” 

Carts set his shake down. “He said I was a wonderful human being, but that I had a lot of growing up to do.” He turned the shake cup sideways so he could watch the green glop slide from one side of the container to the other. “I’ve never broken up with anyone before. Is that normal?” 

All of Mike’s breakups had involved screaming from one or both parties, frequently topped off by storming out and/or door slamming. “No? But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Mike gave up and pitched the rest of his shake in the trash. “Also, fuck him, what does he know? You’re a terrible human being.” 

Carts grinned. “ _Thanks,_ Mike.” 

 

 

Bridget had sick tattoos, shiny hair, and the world’s ugliest dog. That was, in fact, Mike’s pickup line: “Holy shit,” he had said, “that’s an ugly dog.” After almost ten years of having cameras watch him skate, Mike was _usually_ better at self-editing, better at not saying things aloud that might get him slapped. 

But Bridget had _laughed,_ said, “Thanks? The shelter said he’s probably some kind of terrier amalgamation. I call him Gorgeous George.” And basically won Mike over right then and there. 

Bridget had killer legs and pretty brown eyes. She lived in a loft in Silver Lake and sewed her own dresses and went to thrift stores on weekends. Bridget worked at a nonprofit where she basically taught people to teach art, and had a little sister at UC Berkeley that she called all the time. Bridget carried on one-sided comedic dialogues with Gorgeous George, and now, sometimes, with Mike, usually making fun of people on the boardwalk, or whatever happened to catch her eye. She liked mint ice cream. And when she smiled at Mike, everything else stuttered to a stop, and he got this stupid, warm feeling. 

All of this came tumbling out to Carts, of course, who had looked pretty fucking amused, until Mike said, “I’m gonna fuck this up, Carts. I know I’m going to fuck this up.” 

Carts frowned. “You’re not going to fuck this up.” 

“I _am._ ” Mike didn’t care if it sounded like he was whining. He was a little desperate about this. A little frantic. “I _always_ fuck it up.” 

“So be better,” Carts said, and he was looking at Mike like he thought he could be. 

 

 

He did fuck up – it a lot of little ways, and a couple big ways. But he didn’t get caught, and it hardly counts as cheating if you don’t get caught, right? But it was the little ways that added up to set things off tonight – a pretty good back and forth about _not calling when he said he was going to_ and about whether this was a relationship or a _Relationship._ About a lot of things. 

Mike left. He didn’t feel the self-righteous anger and bitterness that usually followed relationship-ending fights. He felt flustered. Sad. Panicked. “Carts.” He was squeezing the phone between his ear and shoulder, turning the truck out onto the street. “Are you home? Can I come over?” 

Carts let him in, took one look at him, and said, “Oh, shit.” He pulled Mike into a hug. Mike got his arms around him and ducked his face into Carts’ shoulder. And _fuck,_ he was so fucking lucky to have this, wasn’t he? 

“I fucked up,” Mike said. 

“No shit.” Carts looked at him. “Give me your phone.” 

Mike handed it over, and only after, when Carts was taping at it, thought to ask, “Wait. Why?” 

Carts held it out, showing him the message he’s just sent. To Bridget. _I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow._

“And now I’m hiding it,” Carts said, “because we’re getting wasted.” 

How the fuck was Carts better at this than him? 

The next day, when he shook off his hangover, he did call her. And Bridget, to her infinite credit, or possibly to demonstrate a total lack of judgment, agreed to speak to him again. Agreed to see him again. Mike was hit with an overwhelming feeling of relief. The world righted on its axis. Mike _wanted_ to sweep it all away, to say, _everything’s going to fine from now on. Everything’s going to be perfect._ To show up with flowers. To make her forget that he was kind of a jackass. 

Because that had always worked for him in the past. If your definition of _worked_ was, successfully delayed the _next_ explosive fight/break-up by four to six weeks. Enough time to find the next girl. Which, if he _really_ stopped, and _really_ thought about it, wasn’t really what he considered _working._ Not anymore. He thought of Carts, thought of Carts saying, “So be better.” 

Instead, he came clean. He listed all the ways he fucked up, and he said, “I’m _really_ sorry, but I’m trying because I really, _really_ like you.” 

He made her cry. It was _awful._

But when she was finished crying, she said he could take her out to dinner. At dinner, looking uncomfortable and awkward, she had said, “I’m not very good at monogamy, either.” 

 

 

“What do you think _that_ means?” He asked Carts, later. 

Carts shrugged. “Maybe you should ask her.” 

Mike frowned. “It _sounds_ like it means she’s planning on cheating on me.” 

Carts’ face took on a thoughtful expression. “Does it count as cheating if she tells you about it in advance?” 

“Yes. Of course.” Mike’s frown deepened. “Wait, doesn’t it?” 

“Think about it, Richie,” Carts looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “ _You’re_ not very good at monogamy, either. So maybe if you just fucking _talked_ about it, you could both just… ” He trailed off, shrugging. 

Which was how Mike stumbled onto the radical idea of being honest with the person he’s fucking. 

And the thing was, it worked. For them. And that was all that really mattered. 

 

 

Midway through the season, Mike and Bridget had plans to take advantage of a rare day off by hitting up the Redondo Beach Block Party. “You wanna come?” He asked Carts. 

“Yeah, sure.” In the background of the call, he could hear Carts puttering around his kitchen. The clash of pans. “You mind if I bring someone?” 

He sounded cool. Casual. Mike grinned. “Of course not.” 

Carts brought Alex. Mike stopped short, squinted. “We’ve met before, right?” 

Alex grinned, wide and toothy. “Well, we’ve spent time together, but we were never formally introduced.” Apparently Alex used to be part of the production crew that did all the KingsVision spots. Alex was the guy who would crack endless strings of jokes while the lighting people were taking _for-fucking-ever_ to do their thing. In the hurry-up-and-wait world that was Mike’s job off the ice, Alex was a definite bright spot. 

“What do you do now?” He asked. 

“Uh.” Alex looked a touch embarrassed. Turns out he did pretty much the same thing now, except for the Lakers. “Better pay,” he said, shrugging apologetically, “and better job security – sorry.” 

Alex was pretty fucking funny. Alex liked beer, and basketball, and hockey. Alex was a fourth generation _angeleno._ Alex had about a million cousins, who, if his stories were true, got up to a lot of crazy shit. According to Carts, he could cook, and ride a skateboard. And he yelled at the TV in Spanish whenever the news came on. He also threw his arm, loose and easy, around Carts’ shoulders when they sat down. And he made Carts smile a lot. 

Mike decided Alex could stay. 

 

 

Carts didn’t bring Alex around a whole lot – hockey kept you pretty _busy_ after all – but Mike could see signs of him all over Carts’ place. Actual art appeared on the walls. A ratty pair of Vans by the front door. A bottle of Tapatío on the kitchen table. 

He survived playoffs too, which was no easy feat for a partner. At least, not according to Bridget. “I just feel bad, you know?” They were between rounds – Mike had 36 hours to check in with his non-hockey life before ducking back under. Bridget was tucked up next to him, and if they never moved off this couch, it would be too soon. “I mean, if I get stressed, I can call Nicole or Jackie, and they’ll be like, _no, no, this is normal._ And they’ll invite me over to drink a bottle of wine. But Alex – I mean, he can call me and _we_ talk all the time, but _I’ve_ never done this before, I don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

Mike paused. There was a lot to parse in that sentence. “Alex knew what Carts can and can’t do when he got into this.” 

Bridget grumbled against him. “It’s not fair.” 

It wasn’t. And if it made _Mike_ feel this shitty, it’s hard to imagine how Carts must feel. How Alex felt. “I can’t ask Carts to… do that. Alex can’t ask Carts to do that. Carts has got to come up with that on his own.” 

 

 

The day after they won their Conference, Carts called him in a panic, way too early in the morning for Mike’s hangover. “Richie, my parents want to fly down for the Finals.” 

“Yeah, and?” Carts’ parents flew down last year for the Finals. _Half of fucking Kenora_ flew down last year for the Cup Finals. 

“My parents,” Carts had slowed down, and was emphasizing every word like Mike was being particularly slow, “want to come down for the Finals. My parents want to _stay with me_ for the Finals.” 

Mike blinked, still not seeing the problem. Carts had a huge-ass townhouse. “And?” Then it started clicking. “Oh.” A huge-ass townhouse with Alex’s stuff all over it. A huge-ass townhouse that Alex had been more-or-less living in for the last few months. A huge-ass townhouse that Carts seemed in no hurry to kick him out of. 

Mike sighed. “Carts. You should just _tell them._ ” 

“I know,” Carts said, his voice strained. “But – my _dad._ ” 

Mike groaned. “At least come over here and freak out in person.” 

Carts stood in his kitchen, shifting his weight restlessly, twisting and untwisting the cap of the water bottle Mike gave him. 

“ _Carts,_ ” Mike said. 

Carts looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders hunched. “I know. I _know._ I just – what if it goes badly?” 

“It’s going to go fine.” 

“What if it goes badly, and I play like shit, and we lose the Stanley Cup?” 

“Carts.” He came around the island to put his hands on Carts’ shoulders. “It’s going to go _fine._ ” 

 

 

“Call me after,” Mike said, on the day Carts’ parents were due to arrive in LA. And Carts nodded and drove to the airport looking like he was going to his own execution. 

His phone rang that afternoon, and Mike picked up on the first ring. “Well? How’d it go?” 

“Uh. Fine.” 

There was a weird echo; Mike frowned. “Where are you?” 

“Hiding in the garage.” At least he was honest. 

_“And?”_

Carts cleared his throat. “It was… fine. My mom said she mostly already knew. My dad said…” Carts’ voice was going thick, rough. “My dad said he loved me.” And Mike had just stayed on the line, and let him lose it for a little while. 

 

 

After they won their _second_ Cup, Mike decided he needed to get out of LA for a little while, if only so he didn’t have to hear people toss around the word _dynasty_ anymore, because that shit was seriously starting to freak him out. He made an executive decision and bought four plane tickets. 

To Mike, the lake meant long summer days and fishing. Taking the boat out, testing out all the new toys he’d compulsively bought, but been unable to try out over the course of the season. Hanging out with three of the people he cared about most in the world. 

At the lake, Alex was initially highly skeptical about fishing, which he described as “hanging out on a boat with a bunch of white boys with sticks.” Once it was explained that, to everyone except Mike, fishing was about sitting in the sun and drinking beer, he was totally on board. To Mike, fishing was about catching a bigger fish than anyone else, and _then_ sitting in the sun and drinking beer, but that’s Mike. 

It was _glorious._ The lake also meant eating whatever the fuck he wanted. And drinking without having to worry about someone pointing a camera at him. The lake meant sleeping in, and waking up next to Bridget, and having _absolutely nothing_ that he had to do that day. And yeah, he missed the rest of the guys, and by August, he’d miss hockey, but here, with the sun slowly baking everyone but Carts brown, waking up to light glinting off the water – it was the first time he started to think about _after._ That _after hockey_ wouldn’t be so bad. It might even be _great._

The lake was also the first place he saw Carts kiss Alex. They were coming in after a long day on the water, buzzed on cheap beer and sun exposure, and the sun was going down, red and orange and vivid. He turned around to ask them what they wanted to do about dinner, and was just in time to see Carts lean over and kiss him. Mike was surprised for a second – even _Alex_ looked surprised for a second. But mostly Mike was surprised that it startled him at all, he thought, _was that really the first time?_ And then he thought about what that means, thought about how Carts must be _so careful_ all the time. 

That thought made Mike’s chest go tight, something cold and heavy settled in his stomach. Because Carts looked so happy here – so relaxed – he wanted that for him _all the time._

Bridget squeezed his hand, and when she caught his eye, she gave him a small smile. Mike put his arm around her, took them home. 

 

 

Brownie announced at one of the first practices back that he was holding a BBQ at his place to kick off the season. Carts gave Mike a lift home; his hands were at a careful ten and two, his eyes forward when he said, “I want to take Alex. To the thing. At Brownie’s.” 

Mike dropped his phone, mid text. “Seriously?” 

Carts darted a nervous glance in his directions. “Yeah. Why? Do you think it’s a bad idea?” 

“ _No._ No, I think it’s a great idea.” He was smiling. 

“Okay.” Carts was frowning slightly; he let out a long sigh. “I’m going to ask Brownie tomorrow, after practice.” He glanced over at Mike again. “Don’t let me chicken out of this, okay?” 

Carts totally tried to chicken out. “This… this was a really bad idea,” he said desperately to Mike. “Come on, Richie – this is too much. You know this is too much.” 

Mike frowned at Carts. Carts was standing – _hiding_ – in one of the currently empty trainer’s rooms. Like Mike wouldn’t notice him trying to sneak off after practice. Mike walked over to the doorway, leaned out and yelled, “Hey Brown – you got a minute?” 

Carts glared at him. 

Brownie ambled over, and Mike said, “Carts has something to ask you.” Then he left. He headed out, sat on the bumper of Carts’ truck, and waited. Carts showed up eventually, looking pale and shaky. Mike held out his hand. “Keys.” 

Carts handed them over without argument. Mike was worried, because Carts still looked so totally freaked. But on the ride home, he said, “Brownie said yes. Said I could bring him.” And Mike grinned, because, _duh._ Carts shifted around in his seat. “He said I might want to tell the guys beforehand. Just to, you know, decrease the chances that somebody says something stupid in front of Alex.” 

Mike shrugged. “Sure, yeah, that makes sense.” When they get to Mike’s place, he looked over. “You okay? You want to come in for awhile?” 

Carts paused before answering. “Nah. I better get home. Gotta bring Alex up to speed, you know?” 

 

 

The next day, standing around on the ice, waiting for practice to start, Mike asked Pens, “You bringing your lady friend to Brownie’s thing?” 

“My lady friend?” Pens snorted. “Yeah, I think so. Bridget going to make it?” Mike nodded. Then, much like Mike thought he would, Pens turned to Carts. “When you gonna hold onto a girl long enough to drag her to one of these Carts?” 

Carts was looking down at the ice. “Actually,” he said, after a very long pause, “I’m bringing my boyfriend.” When he looked up, his eyes were wide, and he looked very much like the sixteen year old kid Mike once knew, but his voice was steady, and he didn’t stumble over any of it. 

The cluster of guys they were standing with went very quiet. Even then, It took Pens a second to twig to the fact that Carts wasn’t joking. 

Pens’ face got very still, and he’d looked at Carts, watched him closely. Finally, he’d said, “Cool, Carts. That’s cool.” And he put his hand on Carts’ shoulder, gave it a hard squeeze. 

Practice was kind of a distracted mess, with guys skating over in ones and twos, making a point of punching Carts in the shoulder. Slapping him on the back. At the end, Coach Sutter even said, “Jeez Carts, next time you have a big announcement, make it _after_ practice, okay?” But then he gripped Carts by the shoulder and said, “I’m proud of you, son.” Mike could see that Carts was working pretty hard to keep it together at that point, so he hustled him out, delivered him home to where Alex was waiting. 

That night Mike got a phone call from Pens. “Some of the guys want to do up Carts’ stall with, like, rainbows and shit. You think that’s a good idea? You think he’d freak out?” 

Mike thought about it for a second. “Naw, man. Do it.” 

 

 

It sort of looked like Rainbow Brite threw up on Carts’ stall: stickers and streamers, all held together with wads of scotch tape. And of course, because Pens had a hand in it, the rainbows were interspersed with ripped out pages from gay porn mags. “Oh my _god,_ ” Carts said when he walked in. “You guys are crazy.” 

Mike had to brush streamers out of the way to sit down – because it wasn’t just Carts’ stall, it was the whole goddamn _locker room._ He raised an eyebrow at Pens. “So, uh, you guys really got into it.” 

“Well, first J-No got jealous and wanted a rainbow sticker for _his_ locker, and it just kinda spread from there.” Pens had made a face, like, _what can you do?_

 

 

Alex was a hit at the BBQ. Lots of the guys remembered him from his KingsVision days. Plus he was awesome, so that helped. And every time Carts started looking a little panicky, a little worried, Alex would put his hand at the small of Carts’ back – Carts didn’t even seem to _notice,_ not really – but his shoulders would go back, and he stood a little straighter. 

Bridget said the _wives and girlfriends_ emails started going out to “wives and girlfriends and Alex.” And that was it really. That was that. 

So at that point, Mike figured, everyone that mattered knew. The only people who didn’t know were, like, _everyone else._ That situation lasted, in hindsight, a ridiculously long time. That situation ended when someone forwarded out an email from the _wives and girlfriends_ list. It was perfectly innocuous: just a list of charity event dates and times, forwarded rather than being cut and paste for convenience sake. Except that the recipient noticed the salutation read, “Dear Ladies and Alex – ” 

The Deadspin headline had read, “IS ONE OF THE LA KINGS GAY??” 

The Kings closed ranks around Carts. And Mike had never been more proud, never loved the guys he skated with more, than when he was watching the way they stepped up for Carts. Nobody said, “Well, it’s not me.” To a man, they said some variation on _gay, straight, doesn’t matter. I play with good guys._

Lombardi said, “The Kings organization has any number of LGBT employees. We fully support _all_ of them.” 

It kinda died away, mostly, with no new news to carry it. Until the Kings flew to Edmonton to play the Oilers, and Carts made the mistake of scoring a hat trick. Mike got knocked out of their last game with a concussion, which was inspiring all sorts of feelings of mortality that he was _not dealing with right now, thank you very much_ – so he’d been home, watching the game with Bridget, who poked him anytime he got too worked up, and Alex, who was close enough to family at that point, that Mike wasn’t worried about looking like a spaz in front of him. 

Given his scoring, _all_ the postgame media wanted to talk to Carts. And it was only a matter of time before someone asked him about the email. Asked him what he thought about the possibility that one of the Kings was gay. 

When the question came up, Carts paused before answering. And maybe it was something about the way Carts was holding himself, or the look on his face, but Alex had stared _hard_ at the TV. “Oh _shit,_ ” he said, “he’s going to do it.” 

“Well.” Carts leaned into the microphone. “Alex is my partner, and I love him. So obviously, I’m fine with it.” 

 

 

It was a _Big Fucking Deal_ for about a week. After that, not so much. After that one of the prospects projected to go early in the first round came out, and said – _actually said_ – “No. I don’t think being gay will affect teams’ decisions on whether or not to draft me. And if they don’t want a gay player, well, then I don’t want to play for them.” Mike couldn’t decide if that was hopelessly naïve or awesome or _both._ But anyways, he thought, it’s _progress._

It wasn’t all roses. There were people who showed up to games with shitty signs. There were a whole lot of _LA Queens_ jokes. Somebody tracked down who Alex was, and sent creepy letters to his business. And, prior to all this, Mike had been on a personal record for longest stretch of games without a fight – which Coach Sutter said was a sign of personal maturity and growth, but really, Mike thought, was more a sign of being _30,_ and wanting to be able to get out of bed in the morning without hurting. 

Yeah, that streak was over. 

But Carts played on a line with Pens – who’s 6’4 and 245 lbs, and Mike – who’s _Mike._ Carts played on a team with _Dustin Brown_ and _Kevin Westgarth._ Even the densest idiot in the NHL eventually learned what was okay and what was off limits. 

Carts rewarded them by playing really awesome hockey. And when their contracts both came due, the Kings couldn’t afford both of them. Not at what they were worth, anyway. 

“I really want to stay here,” Carts said. “I really want to finish here.” 

And yeah, Mike realized he really did too. Mike told his agent to make it happen. 

Maybe it was signing what could be his last NHL contract, or maybe it was the fact that rehabbing from that second concussion had _sucked,_ or maybe it was just not being in his twenties anymore, but _something_ was pressing Mike’s grow up button, _hard._

“Come _on,_ Carts. You have to help me.” 

Carts looked at him, bewildered. “Being gay never made me better at shopping. You _know_ that.” Carts plucked at his t-shirt as evidence. He had, like, eight copies of the same one, because he did suck at shopping. “Ask Alex, he knows Bridget better anyway.” 

Alex _did._ He also had lots of opinions, and now Mike had a ring. It wasn’t a diamond, because Bridget didn’t like diamonds, but it was a ring. 

_Holy fucking shit._

When he pulled up to his place – _their place_ – he could see the lights were on. Could imagine her moving around the house. And he was suddenly frozen, trapped in the car. 

“Let me guess,” Carts said when he picked up the phone, “you’re sitting in front of your house, stalker-style.” 

Mike could barely choke out a laugh. He swallowed. “What if – ” 

“Richie, you’re doing the right thing. It’s going to be fine.” He could _hear_ Carts smiling. “I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

“ _You’re_ proud of _me?”_ Mike was getting choked up; it was hard to get the second part out. “I’m really proud of _you_.” Mike bit his lip. “You’ll stand up with me, right? If – ” 

“Yeah, Richie, of course.” Carts’ voice was thick, so at least Mike wasn’t the only one having _feelings_ all over the place. “But you gotta ask her first.” 

“Okay.” Mike took a deep breath. “I’m going to go do that.” 

 

 

They get married in the off season. There’s a little fluff piece about it, and Mike talks to the King’s reporter for it. 

The reporter asks about Carts, and if he’s next, to which Mike can only shrug. He and Alex are basically married already, although Mike supposes they could get officially married up in Canada, if they really wanted to. 

“You know,” the reporter says, sounding a little sheepish, “I always figured it would turn out either you both were, or you both weren’t. Gay, that is.” He clicks off his recorder. “If this were a rom-com, you totally would have gotten together in the end.” 

Mike laughs, because what a shitshow _that_ would be. 

Although, it hardly matters, because, no, they don’t get together in the end, not like _that_ anyway – but he loves Carts all the same. Not exactly like he loves his brother, not exactly like he loves Bridget, but there are pieces of all that mixed up in it. 

“He’s my best friend,” Mike says, “I’m lucky to have him.”


End file.
